


when she wakes me (she takes me back home)

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-29
Updated: 2008-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cold," Ronon mumbles. It's late and he'd been dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when she wakes me (she takes me back home)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nny.

"Cold," Ronon mumbles. It's late and he'd been dreaming—walking through the bluegrass meadow which had sloped down steeply from his parents' house to the slow-flowing stretch of the Auenlith; three days after he'd enlisted and the still-fresh ache of the regimental tattoo on his neck slowly fading under the warmth of the midday sun—but the soft pad of feet brings him awake, the not-quite-stealthy creak of bed springs in the instant before the blankets lift up to let in a blast of cold air and his arms are full of Jennifer.

"Move over," she says, as if their bed isn't plenty big enough for two; she sounds more than half asleep herself, drained by five long days of helping the Athosian kids lying in the infirmary to fight off the dry cough. "Ronon, move." In spite of her words, Jennifer is as wriggling as close to him as she can get, one arm slung over his waist and the cold tip of her nose buried against his neck; as if she's seeking something against his skin that she can't find outside of their nest of blankets, out in the New Lantean winter's night where the rain pounds against the window and the wind shrieks loud as a hunting Wraith. Ronon decides that at this hour of the morning, objection is futile and its consequences would be unwanted; he rolls over onto his back and takes her with him, so that she's tucked up against him with her head on his shoulder.

Seven years, and he'd forgotten what it had been like to sleep without fear, what it was like to share a bed with someone. Nights like this when he was still a Runner had been spent in a misery of frozen fingers and his hair hanging damp and heavy against his neck, coaxing fire from wet brush while shallow caves provided no shelter from the rain. He'd forgotten the comfort of a clean pillow to lay your head on; the unsought-for luxury of having someone rest their head with trust on your shoulder; the way smaller fingers could twine with yours; how long hair could tickle your nose while you sleep; how ten cold, sharp toes tucked up against your calf could feel like brands against your skin.

"Toes're cold," he mumbles, feeling himself start to doze again.

Jennifer presses a kiss to his collarbone, a brush of her lips right over the spot where the skin is most tender, where touch is most welcome. "Hush y'r'grumbling," she says, "Was doin' important work."

"Uh huh," Ronon says, and doesn't doubt her; kisses her temple and lets that sense of trust pull him down into a deeper sleep, dreams of the two of them walking together where the sun is warm.


End file.
